DISTANCES
by kingsin
Summary: Three years after Sherlock's fall and supposed death, John still keeps his mobile on and ready at all times, out of habit. He never expects to receive a phonecall. Implied alternative fall theory. O/s


John had never fallen out of his old habit of keeping his phone turned on each and every hour of the day, and night. Every second and every minute—all week through, and all month, his finger never touched the power switch to put the device to rest.

Never once did the thought ever even cross his mind.

To put the old horse down.

For the first six months it had been a strenuous task to keep up—he carried it, old with desperation; plugging the charger in every time the battery on the screen lost even one bar of life, remembering to shove it into his pocket every time he went out, even though he knew it was pointless.

It was the hope of the thing.

The warm, heavy feeling of the mobile on his person.

The deduced device—his to be kept. His only.

As the year had drawn to a dark, cold close, John didn't notice as his trained habit began to petrify, like a body turned to a skeleton and a skeleton turned to stone. Before, it had been an irritating necessity. Then it had been a horrible, unbearable, yet despondent, need.

Now it was just a subconscious wont.

He didn't think about it anymore. It just happened. And he didn't care that it happened. Caring was for three years ago—and really, what good had it done for him, even then?

John wasn't entirely sure why he found himself, on the fourth of May, sitting in one of London's many churches, half-listening to the droning homily of Father Roger McMichael at eleven in the morning. It seemed unjustified, but this is where he had found his feet bringing him that Sunday as he wandered the gutted backstreets of the city.

The same city about which John just wondered how it could go on functioning so smoothly and normally, for those weeks after the death of his best friend. London was so _oblivious_ —yes, it had seen the headlines, read the articles, pretended to mourn, and argued over the theories—

But. . . _really_? Had it really ever realised the detail and complexity of what had happened in those days? Was it aware of the lies its hot, sticky network had let breed?

No. And, no, it never would.

London would never know. The _world_ would never know—

But these thoughts were only remnants of three years ago. John didn't construct patterns in his mind like that, anymore.

In the back pocket of his jeans, his phone buzzed.

John failed to react for a moment, though he frowned.

It buzzed again. And then a third time.

The ex-army doctor (ex-army doctor, ex-investigator, ex-friend) cleared his throat and shuffled, leaning forwards and plucking the mobile out and holding it over his lap.

The screen was impatiently flashing at him.

 _Incoming call SHERLOCK HOLMES_ , it insisted.

John sighed and glanced around.

"Not _now_ , Sherlock," he muttered to himself, but jabbed his thumb down to take the call. He raised the phone to his ear, and turned himself away to the side slightly. "Look, I can't speak at the moment—I'm in chur—"

The moment when his stomach froze to ice was the same moment in which he slowly, ever so slowly, stood.

The priest looked up from the lectern and surveyed John with a papery, bemused smile from over his spectacles.

John was staring ahead, his lips parted and a strange chill running down the back of his neck, followed by a creeping touch of heat.

"Sherlock," he said.

"Sorry?" the priest enquired, politely, as everyone in the church turned around to look at the short man standing still, phone to his ear.

John put one hand to his mouth, dragging his fingers down, sucking in a shaky breath.

"Sorry—Father. . . I just have to—I just have a. . ."

He was not aware of his voice trailing off. In his mind his reply was perfectly clear, but now he was suddenly out in St. Augustine's silent foyer, and then bursting into the open.

"Sherlock? Sherlock? Sher—no, no. . . Oh my God—"

The phone beeped.

John jerked it away from his ear, his eyes wide and wild as they processed the white text frankly informing him from the screen.

 _Call disconnected_.

"No no no no no—SHERLOCK!" he yelled into the speaker. The device had already returned to its homescreen and back into its previous state of being alive but not quite living.

Some miles away, on the other side of London, the world's only consulting detective stared down at his own mobile. The call was ended.

He smiled, the corners of his mouth picking up slightly.

 _John was all right_. He was alive.

"So, the puppy still yaps for you, Sherlock.

A shadow fell beside his, melting against its side.

Jim Moriarty craned his neck, narrowing one eye against the brilliant sunlight and fixing his dull gaze on the plane of the detective's cheek. He held his hand out, and Sherlock dropped the mobile onto his palm, his an expression of disdain. Moriarty curled his fingers around the phone and lowered it again, turning his head face-forward, gaze running parallel with Sherlock's to survey the heaving, glittering body of the city of London. The sharpest mind's oyster. Their oyster.

"Time to give him something more to yap _about_."


End file.
